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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28946280">the place you truly belong</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/avosettas/pseuds/avosettas'>avosettas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Undertale (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Bad Sanses Poly/Dream, Bad Sanses Poly/Dream/Error, Crosstale Sans (Undertale), Dissociation, Dream has wings, Dreamtale Nightmare Sans (Undertale), Dreamtale Sans | Dream (Undertale), Dusttale Sans (Undertale), Empath Dream, Empath Nightmare, Errortale Sans (Undertale), Fluff, Horrortale Sans (Undertale), Hurt/Comfort, Killer Sans (Undertale) - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Sibling Incest, Wing Grooming, bad sanses poly - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:41:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,178</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28946280</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/avosettas/pseuds/avosettas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a lot of ways to kick-start one's recovery, and when you've lived in the same universe for five hundred years, one that gave you unspeakable trauma, the very first step should be to leave it. </p><p>(A very, very self indulgent fic in which the Bad Sanses and Dream are all in love, live on a farm, and are doing their best to recover from their trauma.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sans/Sans (Undertale)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>232</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. nightmare</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is based on <a href="https://twitter.com/avosettas/status/1351649189927792640">this thread</a> that i wrote a few days ago, it is SO self indulgent but fuck it. i love it. totally born of the fact that whenever i'm not writing, i'm generally playing stardew valley.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After five centuries of living in stagnation and emptiness, it’s strange for Nightmare to wake up each morning to see the sun rising. </p><p>He can’t deny it’s doing him good; a stable circadian rhythm, leaving the universe that gave him enough trauma to write volumes upon volumes without even touching upon the most recent events, and being with Dream again have all chiseled at the marble that is his depression. </p><p>But five centuries in a universe with no sunlight have <i>also</i> made him sensitive to it. Bones normally bleach when they’re exposed to the sun long enough, but the first time Nightmare steps outside, patches of his skull bubble like a child’s science project. </p><p>Dream buys him a sun hat after that, a floppy straw thing with a pale purple ribbon above the rim.</p><p>Even then, each morning he has to steel himself for the brightness of the sun, the feeling of it on his body. His partners constantly hover after him if he goes outside - usually Dream, the only one of them reliably able to use his magic to heal.</p><p>It becomes their ritual - each evening, after dinner, they sit on Dream’s bed, in the relative privacy of the room he uses mainly for storage, and for decompressing when his senses have been overloaded by the noise of six partners. </p><p>Dream runs his hands over Nightmare’s bones carefully, passing over the slime easily, looking for any burns that need to be dealt with. Sometimes, Nightmare doesn’t feel when he burns, and only knows when Dream finds the scaly, blue-tinted patches of unhealed boils on the back of his skull. </p><p>He’s exceedingly gentle, trailing his fingers over the slime as if it’s the fur of a soft animal rather than the liquid negativity it is. When he’s finally satisfied that Nightmare is healed, and nothing is left that can hurt him - not until the sun comes out tomorrow, anyway - Dream finally agrees to allow his brother to return the favor.</p><p>His wings are neater than they were when Nightmare had first found out about them, right after they’d reconciled, but even the neatest wings require daily preening, and Nightmare is more than happy to take care of that. These days, though, they get more than just a daily preening - not only is Nightmare eager to do it, but Cross and Error both have habits of running their fingers through Dream’s feathers whenever they can. </p><p>He’s not as gentle as Dream is, but it’s less due to intent and more due to the fact that combing is more intrusive than caressing. But he’s just as attentive, plucking out each and every molted feather, and every broken shaft. </p><p>It’s never as bad as it used to be - Nightmare used to end up with a veritable pile of little downy feathers in his lap - but he still takes his time, smoothing each feather in turn, beginning from where they connect to Dream’s scapulas, all the way down to the ends of his primaries, near his femurs. All the while, Dream purrs contentedly. </p><p>Eventually, Nightmare stops being hurt by the sunlight, though. Privately, he mourns the loss of their little nightly ritual, though Dream seems happy to let Nightmare preen him even without returning the favor. </p><p>And every morning, before he steps outside, Nightmare puts that sun hat on, even if he doesn’t really need it anymore. </p><p>~</p><p>The hole in the corner of the yard is for an apple tree, though despite the abundance of flora in bloom, and saplings available for purchase at the organic wholesale a few miles away, it remains empty. </p><p>None of Nightmare’s partners mention it, though sometimes he catches Dream staring at it, deep in contemplation. Other times, Dust will join him as he sits beside it, and say nothing as he secures a few flowers beneath the ribbon on Nightmare’s sunhat, pecking his cheek before standing once more. </p><p>By autumn, the hole is full of leaves, though every morning he empties it and makes sure it hasn’t become refilled with dirt. Horror helps, sometimes, early-riser that he is, scooping the leaves much faster than Nightmare ever could. </p><p>“...take your time,” Horror murmurs as he hands the shovel back to Nightmare, leaning against his side. </p><p>“It’s… I should just plant it,” Nightmare replies softly. His fingers twitch on the shovel’s handle, an unconscious urge to forget about this completely and just fill in the hole. </p><p>“why don’tcha… plant somethin’ else?” Horror suggests. His arms wrap around Nightmare’s middle, and Nightmare sags into him, grateful for the warmth against the chill of the autumn wind. </p><p>“Because it won’t help.” </p><p>“...sure it will,” Horror’s laugh rumbles in his aural canal. “even if it ain’t an apple tree… anythin’ you plant here is a step forward for you… isn’t it, puddin’?” </p><p>He buys a spruce tree the next day, a little blue spruce that’s smaller than the rest. Cross drives him out to the wholesale, but he waits in their beat-up second hand truck, because he knows this is something Nightmare has to do for himself. </p><p>(He makes sure to check online before buying it, even though he’s already nearly sure. Blue spruce trees don’t lose their needles in the winter - of course, those needles already look far different from leaves. They don’t bear any fruit either, only dropping cones.) </p><p>Cross carries the sapling to the corner of the yard, but the hole isn’t big enough yet, so he places the tree to the side. Truth be told, Nightmare is glad, because he wants to plant it himself. </p><p>(He doesn’t want the others to see him crying, because he’s hasn't kept a plant alive since he became corrupted. Anything that wasn’t Horror’s vegetables or Dust’s flowers, he couldn’t resist killing, solely because it <i>could have been</i> an apple tree.)</p><p>“Are you okay?” Cross asks softly. </p><p>“Yes,” Nightmare forces out, and he knows that Cross knows it’s a lie. “Please tell Horror I’ll eat later,” he adds after a moment. “I… need to do this now.” </p><p>“...Alright.” Cross squeezes his hand, gentle as anything. “It’s okay if you can’t.” </p><p>Nightmare doesn’t respond, though he hums when Cross nuzzles him gently before he goes into the house, light against the darkening evening sky, and certainly warmer. </p><p>Then, he turns and begins enlarging the hole. </p><p>It’s tough work - his fingers ache, and he has to fight back a groan every time he leans down to scoop out another shovelful of dirt. Hours pass, and soon he’s working through the darkness, only the moonlight illuminating the patch he works on. </p><p>“Brother,” a soft voice says, and Nightmare’s ashamed to say he startles badly, to the point of dropping his shovel onto the ground with a clang. </p><p>Dream stands behind him, eyelights glowing their soft golden-yellow in the gloom of the autumn night. He’s bundled up more than Nightmare, in a scarf Error gave him, and one of Killer’s thick hoodies. </p><p>“Here,” he says when Nightmare seems to have calmed, pressing another scarf into his brother’s palms. </p><p>Nightmare wraps it around his neck with a grunt of thanks as Dream picks up the shovel, less to take the work off Nightmare’s shoulders than to simply keep him from doing it. “You work too hard.” </p><p>“I need to finish this,” he replies simply, and when he reaches for the shovel Dream acquiesces easily, handing it back without a protest. </p><p>There’s an unhappy feeling in his apple soul when Dream leaves - unhappiness of his own, not someone else's feelings that he’s picked up - but he ignores it, pressing it down like a seed into dirt, in favor of digging the shovel into the cold ground once again. </p><p>Then, another shovel joins his own, and Dream doesn’t say anything when Nightmare looks up. He only keeps eye contact for a moment, before joining Nightmare in the work. </p><p>Despite his earlier adamance that he be the only one to work on this… project, Nightmare can’t help but admit that having Dream help feels <i>right</i>. It lifts a little heaviness off of his soul, even as each shovelful of dirt he and his brother lift out in opposing rhythms makes his back feel like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. </p><p>The moon is high in the sky when they finish. Nightmare is panting, his tentacles laying limp behind him with exhaustion. Dream is less affected, although both his face and wings are dirt-stained. He smiles, but doesn’t speak, and though he places both hands on the burlap-wrapped base of the sapling, he doesn’t lift it until Nightmare does the same. </p><p>They move in tandem as they place it into the hole, silent as they cut the burlap off of the roots and gently unwind it, moving as one. Instead of the shovels, they use their hands to fill in the holes, patting it down softly with their hands even as dirt works its way between their bones. </p><p>It isn’t until they both stand, Dream moving to lean on him, that Nightmare realizes he’s crying. Dream wipes the tears away with one end of his scarf, untucking it from where it rests inside of his sweatshirt. He says nothing, and Nightmare is grateful. </p><p>Dream is sobbing a bit too, nearly silent, gasped noises, but Nightmare’s scarf is as dirt-stained as his hands, so he only nuzzles his brother softly. He doesn’t speak either, but the proximity of his own apple soul to his brother’s matching one feels like a soft blanket, wrapped tight around him in safety and warmth.</p><p>Even though its species is called "blue spruce", the tree looks blue-green in the moonlight, and the sight of it, planted by himself and his brother, feels like he’s ripped a bandage off. A bandage that covered a wound created five hundred years ago, when he felled that apple tree so many universes away in a rage. </p><p>And it feels like that won’t help, ripping a bandage off such a large, still unhealed wound, but then, underneath the bandage, the wound is infected, and the old bandages only make it worse. It’s as if planting this tree allowed him to see that, and Dream’s help with it and closeness after the fact is a balm for the infection, a new dressing for the wound. </p><p>He presses closer to his brother, and Dream wordlessly pulls them both down to sit on the ground, his wings wrapping around Nightmare's body like a blanket. “I love you,” Dream whispers softly, voice cracking from emotion. There’s more conveyed in those three words than anything - they’re two halves of a whole, more than brothers or lovers, or both or neither, either.</p><p>“I love you, too,” Nightmare whispers back, and he hopes it conveys the same unspeakable, gigantic feeling that wants to burst from his soul and take root in the very ground beneath them. </p><p>By the way Dream sags against him, a bittersweet smile on his face to match those same bittersweet tears, Nightmare thinks he understands, and it feels like, maybe, the wound might start to heal.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. killer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>killer cat-dad indulgence!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Killer’s morning routine has been the same since he’d followed Nightmare out of the empty universe that had been their home. </p><p>Generally, that routine entails waking whenever one of his partners does - usually Cross, who’s often the second out of bed, but not as good at keeping the rest of them from waking as Horror is. Horror feeds his cat these days, partially because he feels bad, watching the furball stare at him as he prepares breakfast, and partially because her continually yowling gives him headaches. </p><p>Of course, Puffball is a tiny thing - considering that Killer’s seen Horror lift all of their partners with barely any effort, the fact that he’s afraid of disappointing Puffball is absolutely <i>hilarious</i>. </p><p>But Killer had given in, writing the amount of food the little rascal needed per meal on a note that Horror had stuck to the fridge. No metaphorical skin off his back if someone else wanted to give his little demon her breakfast. </p><p>Today, Puffball is chowing down beneath the window, under Horror’s watchful eye. Cross is half-asleep still, coffee clutched in one hand, chin leaning on the other. </p><p>Killer could never resist tormenting him, although he has to admit that he’s a lot nicer in his needling these days. Cross jumps only slightly when Killer leans over him, throwing his arms loosely around Cross’s neck. “heya, criss-cross.” </p><p>The soft grunt he gets in reply has both him and Horror laughing, and he presses his teeth to the crown of Cross’s skull before moving onto Horror. Puffball winds around his ankles as he walks, and he ends up practically falling into Horror’s chest.</p><p>“should focus on your… demon,” Horror tells him, though there’s amusement in his grumble. “loud this mornin’.” </p><p>Killer pecks him on the teeth, before untangling himself from Horror’s arms and picking up said rascal cat. “you causin’ issues? knew i shouldn’t have let them name you after a mushroom.” </p><p>“You agreed to the name,” Cross slurs from the table, a dopey, sleepy smile on his face. </p><p>“before i knew it was a mushroom,” Killer asserts. He rearranges Puffball in his arms, holding her with an arm beneath her forepaws and a hand beneath her rump, and then holds her close enough to Cross that she can sniff him. “c’mon, give crossy a kiss.” </p><p>“...Stop,” Cross says after a moment, though he puts his coffee down to stroke Puffball’s soft fur. “You’re literally insufferable.” </p><p>“you love me so much. you wanna kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid,” Killer snarks. Puffball leaps from his arms, skittering on the floor towards the open screen of the front door. “but it looks like the kissin’s gonna have to wait, the missus wants to go outside.” </p><p>Cross rolls his eyelights. “By all means.” </p><p>“what the… missus says, goes,” Horror laughs. </p><p>~</p><p>He should probably invest in a new container for bird seed. There’s a big hole in the side of the supposedly-air-tight, plastic bin that sits on the porch. Who knows what kind of rodents are getting into it? </p><p>(And Puffball isn’t allowed to kill things; it makes Dream upset, for one, and even worse, Killer had sat through a very, very long lecture on the destruction of ecosystems due to wandering cats, given by Horror with help from Dust.) </p><p>The stupid bin leaks birdseed throughout the yard, and Puffball ends up getting a veritable coating of it in her fluffy fur. Eventually, Killer gives up trying to stop her from walking in his path; if she wants to get birdseed all over her, she’ll have to deal with the brush, too. </p><p>There aren’t any birds near the feeders when Killer plops the bin onto the dirt, but even if there had been, they would have flown away at first sight of him. Somehow, it’s reassuring to know they’re flying because he’s big and scary to them, and not because they know what he’s done. </p><p>The flat seeder gets filled first, three heavy scoops to top it off, followed by a new block of suet for the cage-shaped feeder beside it. Another thing for his list, Killer supposes; more suet, because the damn birds go through it so fast. </p><p>The bird houses look fine - a little clumsily painted, perhaps, but that’s to be expected when one was done by Horror. From his pocket, Killer pulls some scrap fabric that Error gave him, and sticks it through some of the gaps in the fence. It’ll be gone by midafternoon, he’s sure. </p><p>He takes his time getting the bin back onto the porch, meandering a bit to look for Puffball. She’s generally smart enough to avoid Dust’s bee houses, but not enough to avoid the flowers that they land on in the first place. </p><p>(Her paw had swollen to the size of her head when she’d gotten stung, and the medication from the vet was stressful for everyone. Mostly because the little demon didn’t want anyone touching the sting, which, in Killer’s opinion, was perfectly understandable. It just would have been nicer if the whole episode hadn’t ended with Puffball scratching both Cross and Dust.)</p><p>Stupid cat.</p><p>She’s not digging in Horror’s vegetables, either, though it’s likely that had she tried, Horror would have shooed her away, since he’s already knelt on the ground weeding. Dust is beside him, still in his pajamas.</p><p>She’s not by Nightmare’s little spruce tree, either. By all rights, a white cat should stick out like a sore thumb, shouldn’t she? </p><p>“Oh, Killer!” Dream interrupts his rather angry thoughts with a cheerful shout, and Killer is all too happy to wander towards the chicken coop to see him. </p><p>“hey, kitten,” Killer says, dropping to sit beside Dream. The hens swarm him immediately, two jostling to get into his lap, while a third nudges her head under his hand. “yeah, yeah, hello ladies.” </p><p>Dream laughs a bit, certainly due to the hens’ antics, though whether it’s due to their antics specifically with Killer, he can’t be sure. Every time he comes back here, there are always a few trying their hardest to preen Dream, even though his wings are at least five times the size of their own. They’re also decidedly not chicken wings, though it never seemed to make a difference. </p><p>“damn, they’re really goin’ at it today,” Killer observes. At least two different hens are trying to run their beaks through Dream’s slightly dirt-stained feathers, and another is perched in his lap. </p><p>“Aren’t they always?” He laughs again, a soft chiming sound that Killer could pick out anywhere. He pushes them away, though it doesn’t stop them for long. </p><p>“not usually this ticklish when one of us preens you,” Killer says, yanking Dream from the ground to get the hens to quit. “what’s up, anyway?” </p><p>Dream usually leaves the rest of them to their own things, only calling them if he needs something, or helping Horror herd them all inside for dinner. He seems to perk up at the reminder, wings fluffing up a bit - it’s adorable, Killer notes idly. </p><p>“Right, yes - Puffball is around here somewhere! I saw you looking…” His face falls slightly, coloring with a familiar golden flush. “...and then I got distracted by you and the hens!” </p><p>Killer shrugs - it’s a nice day, and their yard is big enough that she rarely leaves it anyway. No skin off his back. “‘s fine, kitten. she’ll turn up. always does.” </p><p>He gets a frown in response, though it quickly shifts into something else that Killer doesn’t catch, because Dream is pushing past him to look at a group of his hens. There are three there, two darker colored ones, and one white - </p><p>“oh my fuckin’ - why are they preening <i>you</i>?” Killer asks as he grabs Puffball from the pile. She’s covered in dirt, and she ragdolls and purrs in his grip, completely content. </p><p>“I see your bad mood hasn’t stopped you from purring back at her,” Dream teases, sly only in word-choice, because his face is schooled - or maybe it really is his face, fuck if Killer knows - into a cheerful smile. </p><p>Killer doesn’t grace him with a response, just a huffed laugh that makes his purr warble unsteadily, because they both know that Dream is spot-on, as per usual. He’d have to have fallen down or dusted to not answer Puffball’s purr, or the purr of one of his mates. </p><p>Luckily, Puffball seems to know that it’s also a surefire way to get him out of a bad mood, even if it’s directed at her. Definitely better than sparring for anger management, even if sometimes she makes him want to rip his non-existent hair out. </p><p>(Though to be fair, sparring with the others used to do that, too - it’s the end result that matters, Killer supposes, isn’t it?)</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. dust</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>happy birthday dust i love u so fucking much (...his bday is tomorrow in my timezone but i wanted to get this out)</p><p>also this is the longest chapter so [dabs]</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The watering can drips steadily as Dust tilts it, leaving little divots in the dirt where the drops hit. At least the water that does make it to the spout reaches the dry soil in the flower pot, rather than the sandy dirt it sits on. </p><p>Dust moves onto the next group of pots as soon as he’s satisfied that this one has been watered enough, meandering past Dream’s chicken coop and Killer’s bird feeders across the yard. None of the flowers are arranged in a coherent way, as far as the others are concerned; Dust simply put them where they looked nice, and that was that. Whether or not it took him fifteen minutes or fifty to water them was of no consequence to him. </p><p>He stops at the group of pots near the porch next, and then tosses the watering can against the stairs with a clang that will surely make Error or Nightmare (or both) lecture him later. It’s just easier to do that, though, especially if he has more watering to do with the hose. </p><p>The spigot is already in the ‘on’ position when Dust rounds the house, so he follows the unraveled house to whoever’s decided to take it. Hands in his pockets, he kicks up dirt as he drags his feet along the path created by the green, rubber line, mostly ignoring the sounds of rushing water. </p><p>(If he focuses on it too long, it sounds like marrow and magic running through his skull, like it used to when he…)</p><p>(None of that, he tells himself. Thinking about that will only send him into an episode.) </p><p>He’s too busy thinking about <i>not</i> thinking about that to notice that he’s come to Horror’s garden beds. They’re raised beds that he put together himself, and when Dust kicks his foot into the side of the first one he finds with full force, it should hurt. </p><p>It doesn’t, of course. Dust rarely feels pain anymore - if anything, there’s a slight tingling and stiffness to his toes. He stares down at them, somewhat surprised to see the wooden frame of the garden bed inhibiting his walking. </p><p>Then, he steps back, sidesteps the hose so as to have a clear path, and continues on his way. </p><p>There are six garden beds, each of them meticulously kept by Horror, arranged beside the fence. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he’s the one who’s taken the hose. </p><p>Horror hasn’t noticed Dust yet, focused on watering whatever it is he keeps in the plot furthest from the house. Dust figures it’s probably some sort of vegetable; maybe tomatoes, considering the conical, metal cages placed in the dirt. Whatever it is, its destiny is to be used in a meal, and Dust is sure it will be delicious. </p><p>He’d probably eat dirt if Horror handed it to him, though, so maybe he’s not a good judge of taste.</p><p>Dust grunts a greeting as he steps over a bag of potting soil, and then the coil of hose that’s landed just beside the garden bed. Horror looks at him appraisingly from beneath his sun hat, his eyelight lighting the floppy rim with a red glow.</p><p>“...hey, bunny,” he says after a moment. “you… need something?” </p><p>“the hose, when you’re done with it,” Dust replies with a shrug. </p><p>Horror nods slowly, moving his hand to change the angle of the hose’s spray a touch. “think… it’s s’pposed to rain.” </p><p>As if on cue, a cold breeze sweeps through the yard. One of Dream’s chickens squawks indignantly over the rustle of leaves, and Dust huffs, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. He hates the cold - it reminds him too much of <i>before</i>, and of home - but summer has to end, eventually. </p><p>“...gonna need t’get you... a thicker coat,” Horror says, pulling Dust closer to him. His hand is heavy and warm on Dust’s shoulder, a barrier from the deepening chill. </p><p>“‘s fine,” Dust grumbles, but Horror is already wiggling his fingers into a hole in the fabric. It’s only in the upper layer, so while there isn’t as much protection from the cold as there <i>should</i> be, it’s not like his humerus is directly exposed, either. </p><p>“...error could sew -” </p><p>“no.” </p><p>Horror doesn’t speak for a moment, beyond his usual pauses, but he doesn’t let Dust go, either. The fingers in the hole wiggle again, and then he says, “i can sew it.” </p><p>While that’s more appealing than Error sewing it up, mainly because he can be an absolute menace with a needle, Dust still isn’t sure. Horror hardly leaves room for argument though, especially as he places the hose in Dust’s hands, wrapping his twitching fingers around the neck. </p><p>“think… about it,” he insists, pushing the hose towards Dust. “‘nd anyway… i’m sure night’s gonna get you… somethin’ warmer, anyway.” </p><p>Dust just nods, and though he mumbles something about going to water the rest of the flowers, even he barely hears it. Horror lets him go with a final nuzzle. “try ‘nd be quick, though… don’t wanna catch a cold.” </p><p>The knowledge that it isn’t cold enough to snow is comforting, though the chilly breeze that kicks up as Dust walks still sets him on edge. Part of him misses the ratty scarf he used to wear obsessively, as a horrific reminder of what he’d done. </p><p>(The rest of him knows that pulling it from the box in the closet probably isn’t worth the episode it will bring with it.)</p><p>His sunflowers sway in the breeze, and because of the incoming weather, there are no bees on them. Usually, they swarm in the center, foraging for pollen and buzzing up a storm, but today it’s silent. It’s more unnerving than their constant buzzing had been, the first time he’d heard it. </p><p>Sunflowers watered, Dust pointedly does not look at the sky. Instead, he winds the hose up in a thick loop around his arm, staring at his feet and trying to calm his twitching fingers. The storm clouds might be a light shade of gray, the kind that float through when it snows, and he’s already doing badly enough today, as far as he’s concerned. </p><p>(He doesn’t need anymore reminders of the home he destroyed.)</p><p>The spigot squeals when he twists it, and the whole hose rack shakes when he dumps the hose onto it. It doesn’t jostle the marigolds planted in the pot beside it, though they still draw Dust’s attention, bright orange and yellow against the side of the house. His breath shakes even as he tries to steady it. </p><p>Marigolds are small and fragile, even though they’re considered hardy. One good yank could tear them out of the pot. </p><p>He crouches on his shaking feet and uses his claws to clip one of the stems, just above the main plant. The flower falls into his palm, and he notes that the stem seems undamaged, save the fact that it’s been severed; the flower will regrow, if it can bloom before the winter arrives. </p><p>Dust does the same to two others, ending up with a small bouquet of marigolds, their stems long enough to be held in his hands without crushing the petals. The sight cheers him up; back home, nothing aside from evergreens ever really grew, because of how cold it was. </p><p>Even with all his dithering, Dust only barely makes it onto the porch steps before the rain starts, a downpour that sounds like thunder on the awning. Thankfully, he’s still dry; it doesn’t look like Dream will have the same luck, still herding his hens into their coop. </p><p>Someone mutters behind him, and momentarily, Dust’s magic flares. It’s only Error, though, and the recognition calms him just as quickly. He’s sitting on the porch swing with his knitting in his lap, and a towel beside him. Every movement makes the swing creak. </p><p>“Dream’s g-going to get soaked,” he says grumpily, though his voice is dripping with fondness. </p><p>“that’s why you’ve got a towel there, isn’t it?” Dust quips in response, stepping up onto the porch proper. </p><p>Error snorts. “Dr-dream left the towel here.” He narrows his eyes a bit, glaring at Dust’s shoulder. “That h-hole is gigantic.” </p><p>“that’s what she said,” Dust replies, maybe a little mechanically. Then, he adds, “horror’s gonna fix it.” </p><p>“Good. Y-you’ll catch a cold, or something.” His scowl deepens. “Just l-like Dream is going to.” </p><p>“he’ll manage. our firefly’s good at that,” Dust replies. He can’t even be self conscious that his voice sounds just as fond as Error’s had.</p><p>Error shrugs. “You sh-should go inside. You look c-cold.” </p><p>That’s all the encouragement that Dust needs to step inside, even though he’s shivering so badly that it takes him a few tries to open the door. To his credit, Error doesn’t comment. </p><p>He can’t expect the same from anyone in the house, though. </p><p>Cross and Horror are both in the kitchen when he steps through the threshold, though thankfully Nightmare is nowhere to be seen, and neither is Killer. They’re working on something -probably a pie, since Cross is involved. </p><p>Dust slips into one of the kitchen chairs, slumping onto the table. The rain pounds on the roof in a constant percussion, though the regularity of the sound is relaxing. </p><p>There’s an empty mason jar on the table, though to his memory, it had a small bunch of snapdragons and a little bit of water in it this morning. </p><p>“...they got smelly,” Horror says. He’s still standing near the counter, though now he’s looking at Dust instead of focusing on whatever Cross is doing. “your… flowers," he clarifies when Dust raises his head. "had to… toss them this morning.” </p><p>Dust nods, before dropping the marigolds into the jar. Horror watches with narrowed eye sockets, and Cross turns, having finished whatever it is he’s doing. Without him in the way, Dust can see that it looks like bread dough. </p><p>“You’re shaking,” he comments, though instead of continuing he walks towards the sink. </p><p>“it’s cold out,” Dust argues, watching as Cross washes his hands, focusing on how carefully he scrubs between the joints of his phalanges to get the dough out. </p><p>“dust bunny,” Horror says gently, and Dust just grabs his hood and drags it down against his face. Someone puts a hand on his shoulder, and he takes a heavy breath. The exhale sounds so loud that he might as well be screaming. </p><p>“It’s the rain, right?” Cross is closer, now, and Dust belatedly realizes that he was washing his hands so he could help. “Did you think it would snow.” </p><p>He nods first, and then shakes his head. “knew it was too warm for snow.”</p><p>“...probably just a...bad day, bunny,” Horror murmurs from wherever he is. Dust nods again, focusing in the darkness created by his hood. “...happens.” </p><p>“What do you need?” Dust shrugs jerkily at that; who the hell knows? He’s just glad he’s not hearing his brother’s voice blaming him, or telling him to gain more LV. </p><p>“...we’ll be here… if y’need us, hm?” Horror hums softly, and Dust finally locates him, on his other side. As if rewarding him for the realization, Horror’s hand rests on his back, a grounding weight. </p><p>“i’ll be okay,” Dust rasps after a moment, clenching his hand into fists in the fabric of his hood. “like you said, it’s just a bad day.” He pushes the hood back to its usual spot, far back enough that he can see, and the lights are momentarily blinding, like the snow back home…</p><p>But back home, though, he wouldn’t have Cross or Horror making sure that he was alright. Or Dream traipsing in, dragging a damp towel behind him like a cape, or Error grumbling about mud. Soon, Nightmare will probably storm in, annoyed about the mud that Dream’s tracked in, and worried about Dust, and of course, he’ll be followed by Killer. </p><p>It’s home enough, Dust supposes, relaxing against the table. More so than Snowdin ever had been, at least in the end.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. horror</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sorry this is slow, my IH has been a pain in the ass lately, and sleepiness? not conducive to writing. </p><p>also, if you didn't see on my twitter... error is a hoodie stealer. it's relevant.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's early. Or maybe it's just very, very late - Horror's never been one for pedantics or semantics. But either way, it's still dark when he steps into the kitchen. </p><p>The floor creaks slightly beneath his feet, and the light buzzes loudly for a moment before actually turning on. He stands in the threshold for a moment, considering whether or not to make breakfast. </p><p>Certainly, he should make a meal for himself, but it's hard to say when the others would decide to wake up. There's no question as to <i>if</i> he'll prepare something for them, but <i>when</i> he'll actually do it. </p><p>The clock on the stove is slightly blurred when Horror looks at it, and he has to stare for a few moments to let it fall into focus. It's - wait. He squints, and then realizes the next hour has come, and <i>that's</i> why all the numbers have changed. It's five o'clock, now. </p><p>He stares a little longer, before finally opening the fridge and taking out ingredients for an omelet. Two eggs, some peppers and tomatoes and onions… </p><p>It takes a few tries to light the stove. As the flame grows, Horror cracks the eggs into a bowl and scrambles them up, and then dices the vegetables into little pieces. He's finished by the time the flame is steady enough to place a pan on. </p><p>It's easy to lose himself in the monotony of his task, to the point that he startles when something touches his ankles. The loose bits of the omelet shake when he jolts, though he relaxes quickly enough; it's only Puffball, here to beg for her breakfast. </p><p>"gimme a… minute," he tells the cat, prodding at the edges of his omelet with a spatula. It's still too runny, but if he leaves it to feed her, it might burn. </p><p>Despite this, Puffball meows indignantly, twining her tail around his lower leg bones. </p><p>It seems to take longer than usual for the omelet to finish, though it's more burnt on the bottom than he'd prefer. It's fine, though; he doesn't have much preference when it comes to what he eats anymore. </p><p>Puffball gets her food next, and she's of a similar mindset; she'll eat whatever kibble or wet food Killer decides to buy, no matter the flavor. Horror respects that. </p><p>He watches her for a moment, and then turns back to the stove, deciding to take a bite of his omelet before he begins making everyone else's breakfast. It's already cold, though.</p><p>Horror narrows his eyes. It's definitely cooked all the way through; in fact, it's slightly burnt. But it's fallen from hot out of the pan to room temperature on the plate already, and he isn't quite sure why. </p><p> </p><p>The window gives him a pretty good clue, though. Minutes ago, it was five in the morning, and the sky was lightening only slightly, into a shade of deep blue-violet from its nighttime blackness. Now, it's pale blue, tinged gray because the rising sun is still too low to brighten anything. It shouldn't be, not if it only took him ten minutes to cook his omelet and feed Killer's furball. </p><p>It should still be dark. But the clock reads 6:20 in mocking green numbers when he finally forces himself to look at it. </p><p>"Horror," a voice says behind him. The fork in his hand clatters onto the surface of the countertop. </p><p>The cold that Nightmare radiates is less invasive through both their sweatshirts, though Horror can still feel it as his partner wraps an arm around his back. One hand is cold on Horror's elbow; the other places the dropped fork back onto the plate with a soft clink. </p><p>"...morning," Horror rasps after a moment, forcing himself to relax his grip on the counter. "how… did you sleep?" </p><p>Nightmare shrugs. "Fine. And you?" </p><p>There's a tentacle winding around his ankle, and it distracts him momentarily. Or maybe longer, Horror isn't sure. Nightmare doesn't grudge him the time, though, and that's something Horror will always be grateful for, no matter how many times the other shrugs it off. </p><p>"...was… fine. weird morning…" </p><p>"I know," Nightmare says, leaning his skull on Horror's shoulder. "Take your time. Don't overwork yourself." </p><p>"...breakfast," Horror sighs, going for his omelet. Nightmare swipes his fork before he can grab it. </p><p>"Dream's chickens can have a treat," he states with no room for argument. "And I'll make french toast, unless you're adamant on cooking."</p><p>"...okay," Horror agrees, taking the plate when Nightmare offers it to him. There's a look in his eye that says if Horror does anything with the omelet besides cut it up for the chickens, he'll be in trouble. </p><p>~</p><p>Horror goes about his day in a daze. It's terrible, not in the least because he hasn't had such a horrible day, at least with regards to his dissociation, in weeks. Writing it in his journal is a special kind of humiliating, so as soon as he finishes noting it down, he switches to his garden journal. </p><p>This is better. Even with his mind working at a snail's pace, it's much easier to think about plants than anything else. </p><p>He settles on the floor of his room. It's quiet and smells a little strange - probably because the cat sleeps in here more than he does, really - but it's calming, with his back against the bedframe and one of Error's blankets around his shoulders. </p><p>When he flips his garden journal open, six index cards fall out of it. He stares at them in bewilderment longer than he should, more focused on the way the beige carpet curls around the white paper than on why they're actually there. </p><p>The previous page is of no help; it's just notes on what sort of trees are in the corner of their property near the chicken coop. There's a messy little diagram that he can't make heads or tails of, little circles that he guesses are meant to be trees, some of which have big x's or plus signs on them. </p><p>Thankfully, he did label those in a key; one means 'this is a pine tree', and the other means 'this is an oak tree', apparently. That part doesn't make sense.</p><p>There's also a note that reads "alliums good for carrots and tomatos" near the bottom of the page. And in a different pen, he's written "carrots and tomatos go in different plots", underlined three times. </p><p>Horror sighs when it hits him. They're notes for companion planting. </p><p>If he flips further back, there are notes that list what plants go well together. "...pine 'r oak… 'nd blueberries," he grumbles, somewhat annoyed at himself for forgetting such a simple thing. It really is simple; he was going to plant blueberries in the corner near the chicken coop. </p><p>Stupid, stupid, stupid - </p><p>"Sto-op that." A hand wrenches his claws from the hole in his head, and Horror startles slightly. It's only Error, though, looking peeved that his attempt to steal Horror's warm clothing has been foiled. </p><p>"...hi…" Error snorts at his greeting, dropping to the floor beside him. With one hand, he fixes the blanket on Horror's shoulders, though he doesn't pull any of it towards himself even though he's shivering. </p><p>"Hi y-yourself," he says, craning his neck to look at the journal without touching Horror too much. "No s-silly nickname today?" </p><p>There's silence for a moment, and then Horror turns to stare at him, confusion plain on his face. Error sighs, "Neverm-mind. You must b-be more out of it than N-night thought." He shuffles closer, pressing himself to Horror very slightly. "What's confusing you?" </p><p>"...dunno what the… cards are for," Horror admits. Error takes them without prelude and counts them once, then twice, too fast for Horror to keep up with. Then, he leans closer to look at the journal once more. </p><p>"If I h-had to guess," he says, straightening the cards before handing them back, "th-they're meant to represent your garden b-beds." </p><p>"...stupid," Horror mumbles, though he labels them as he speaks. "stupid…" </p><p>Error is clearly dumbfounded - he probably only came in to steal a hoodie, if his lack of one and his shivering is anything to go by - but he does his best. "No," he argues, but it ends there, and Horror snorts when he doesn't continue.</p><p>"don'... bother," he says with a wry grin, laying the cards out in front of him. They're numbered one through six now, with notes: card number one says "closest to fence, closest to chicken coop", while card number six says "furthest from fence, closest to sunflowers", and card number two says "closest to fence, middle". </p><p>"L-look," Error tries again, "you already figured out h-how to remember what the cards m-mean." </p><p>"...not if i close… the journal again." </p><p>"So clip th-them to that p-page when you're done. And write on the page what they're for." </p><p>Horror stiffens, then relaxes and laughs bitterly. "y'make it… sound so easy, sweetpea. guess that's… 'cause you haven't got a… hole in your head." </p><p>"That's what I'm h-here for," Error replies with a roll of his eyelights. "To think when y-you idiots are t-too focused on being s-self-deprecating to do it yourselves." </p><p>Horror's laugh is genuine and not at all bitter this time, and it makes the fact that Error is cold (and that his hoodie stealing plot has been <i>foiled</i>) worth it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. cross</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>No matter how careful he is, Cross always ends up with dough stuck between his phalanges. </p><p>It doesn't matter how much flour he coats the dough with, or if he uses a rolling pin for the entire process - somehow, bits of it wind up between his bones everytime, no matter what. It's rather uncomfortable to deal with, even if it only lasts for duration of putting the crust in the pan. </p><p>Still, the feeling of dough in one's joints isn't pleasant, and though Cross has been making pie for many years (and many timelines), it's still one of his least favorite parts of the process. </p><p>("Your intent will not reach the dough if you do not use your bare hands, Sans," the queen had told him once <strike>or maybe more than once, spread across a timeline or ten</strike>. He hadn't begrudged her the species difference, because when his hands and his brother's hands came away with dough in their joints, her own paws would be suffering the same fate, with the dough clumped up in her fur.)</p><p>(He tries not to think of Toriel too often.) </p><p>The hot water feels nice on his bones as he holds his hands beneath the faucet. Plenty of dough runs off as it gets hit with the spray, but he'll need to scrub a bit to get all of it out of the smaller areas between his phalanges. </p><p>Nightmare has bought some pleasantly-scented soap this week, though Cross can't pick out exactly <i>what</i> that scent is as he lathers up his hands, and then rinses them. And then again, and again. </p><p>"rinsin' and repeatin', huh, crossy?" </p><p>Cross feels his face fall into a scowl before he cranes his neck to look at Killer. "I'm making a pie." </p><p>"well, that can't be right," Killer snorts, leaning on the counter beside the sink. "because it looks like you're washing your hands." </p><p>The asshole is asking for it, so Cross splashes him with the soapy water. His fingers are mostly free of dough now, so he shuts the water off before Killer can retaliate. </p><p>"and now," Killer narrates with a grin, impervious to the water sliding down his temples, following Cross as he grabs a dishtowel. "it looks like you're drying your hands."</p><p>Cross rolls his eyes, throwing the towel back to the counter before turning. "Is your only purpose in life to piss me off?" </p><p>"nah. sometimes i piss night off, too." A sudden burst of thunder interrupts them, and Cross jumps. Killer clearly catches it, because his grin widens ever-further. "and sometimes i let you guys use me as a teddy bear when a <i>big, scary</i> storm rolls through…" </p><p>He steps closer, pressing their chests together, and Cross's scowl deepens, expecting an innuendo. But even he laughs when Killer instead whispers in a sultry tone, "do you need a teddy bear right now, criss-cross?" </p><p>"I - I absolutely do not," he replies through laughter, and Killer snickers a bit too, backing up an inch or so to give Cross a bit more space. "Dream - Dream might." </p><p>"oh, true," Killer agrees. "fucking raining cats and dogs, and he doesn't like thunder anyway. probably holed up in his room." </p><p>"I'm sure." There's another crash of thunder outside, and Killer waves before darting towards the bedrooms, probably to annoy Dream and whoever is already keeping an eye on the little astraphobic guardian. </p><p>Once Killer disappears from sight, Cross opens the pantry. Horror had canned the fruits and vegetables from their garden once their growing seasons had ended, and Cross has plenty of berries to choose from now to make filling. </p><p>Blueberries, blackberries, raspberries, strawberries… </p><p>He decides on blueberries, pulling out a jar full, as well as the jar of sugar. Hopefully, in the time it takes for him to make the filling - especially with the distraction Killer has already provided - the crust will have chilled enough, even though he still needs to make the top. </p><p>(Toriel had taught him to make lattice tops, even if she herself often defaulted to just poking holes in the rolled-out dough. Lattices are all he ever makes now, though - the weaving is relaxing, and the end result is usually nice.) </p><p>The blueberries that Horror canned already have a little water in with them, so all Cross needs to add is sugar. Horror scratched out a rough conversion chart a few months ago, and it's still on the fridge. Cross only has to glance at it, and then at the size of the jar, to know how much sugar to add. </p><p>He's measuring out two cups carefully when someone bumps into him, and it's only due to his sturdy stance that the sugar doesn't fly everywhere. </p><p>"sorry," Dust says sheepishly, fingers twitching as he holds his hands in front of him. "lil' distracted." </p><p>"It's fine," Cross sighs, dumping the sugar into a pot with the blueberries, and sticking it onto the stove. The rain beating against the windows muffles the soft hissing from the stove once it's lit, and he settles himself against the counter to keep an eye on it. </p><p>He hears Dust move away, and then return, leaning on the other side of the stove with a granola bar in his hand. "pie?"</p><p>"Yeah," Cross affirms, grabbing a wooden spoon from the container beneath the window. He crushes some of the blueberries, stirring to make sure he doesn't accidentally end up with blueberry-flavored caramel. </p><p>"smells nice," Dust mumbles, sliding down the cabinets to sit on the tiles. "can i stay?" </p><p>Cross doesn't look him, but he raises a browbone at the pot. "'S your kitchen too, you don't need to ask," he replies, trying to decide if the heat needs be turned higher. </p><p>Dust snorts. "yeah, but will you mind?" </p><p>"Nope," Cross says, cranking the heat up a notch. </p><p>~</p><p>Dust leaves eventually, quiet as a mouse, as Cross is waiting for the filling to cool. </p><p>He doesn't mind; Dust isn't exactly a conversationalist at the best of times, and today is no exception. The silence is always companionable, though, and so Cross has never complained about it. </p><p>He's busy rolling out the extra portion of dough into a flat sheet for the pie top when Nightmare wanders in, looking half asleep. "Hey boss," Cross greets, the nickname more affectionate than deferential. It had never been a deferential nickname, really; not when Killer was the one who used it most. </p><p>"Good morning," Nightmare replies, though it's barely morning anymore. "Pie?" </p><p>"I've been asked that twice now," Cross snorts, cutting the dough into long strips. "Do I ever make anything else?" </p><p>"Killer asked you twice? His memory must be going." Though his face is deadpan, his tone is tinged with amusement. "And he says I'm the one reaching old age." </p><p>"Killer didn't ask me at all," Cross says as he starts arranging the dough. "You asked, and Dust asked." </p><p>"Ah," Nightmare sighs as he pours himself a cup of long-cold coffee from the pot. "I suppose I've 'played myself', as Killer says." </p><p>Cross snorts again. "Yeah, you have." </p><p>Nightmare wanders off with the same determination he'd wandered in with, and Cross pretends not to notice how his tentacles list to the right, keeping him from bumping off the walls. He must be awfully tired to be visibly keeping his blindside protected, Cross thinks, but he supposes it's nice to see Nightmare let his guard down once in awhile. He's been better about it since they'd left his home universe - Cross is sure that hadn't been helpful for moving on. </p><p>Personally, Cross couldn't imagine trying to recover from his own… <i>issues</i> in the universe he'd grown up in. The wounds would feel too raw. </p><p>They still feel too raw to deal with, so he ignores them instead, carefully weaving the dough into a lattice, exactly the way Toriel had taught him no less than ten times, in ten different timelines.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>twitter @avosettas (18+ only please)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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